


twenty one point six eight seconds

by 100demons



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without her, Sherlock spirals out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twenty one point six eight seconds

It’s a standard pair of police cuffs, Smith & Wesson, model 100, nickel. Warm, from the heat of her hands. It curls around his wrists, smooth metal kissing his skin. “Tighter,” he says. “As tight as you can make it.” He can hear the shift of cotton on skin and the bells she wears in her hair ring a little she tilts her head down, her mouth almost, but not quite, grazing the back of his neck.  
  
“You forgot to buy the milk,” she says and the cuffs tighten, digging into the soft skin.  
  
“I got-- distracted,” he huffs, pain bleeding into pleasure. “I met with-- an American. A New Yorker. Work-related.”  
  
“And somehow that was more important than the milk for my tea?” It’s maddening, the way her breath caresses his skin and leaves him half-hard and aching for more.  
  
“He doesn’t drink tea-- coffee, black and a slice of cake. Drinks it with his left, writes with his left; born left-handed but trained to use his right from a young age. Abominable handwriting. Judging from his voice, smoked for a while but recently quit. From the lighter in his jacket pocket, it seems to be a difficult venture, probably on the behest of his wife and two children.”  
  
The world is briefly tinted in red before it goes dark, the cloth rough against his skin. “An American copper working with Scotland Yard? Who didn’t immediately throw coffee in your face?” She moves away, the scent of jasmine following in her wake. “I can see why you were distracted. But you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you, Sherlock?”  
  
“I’ll do better,” he promises. “Can I start now, ma’am?”  
  
“Twenty-two seconds,” she says and suddenly she’s straddling him in his chair, long legs wrapped around him, mouth on his heartbeat. “Get to it.”

\---

He doesn’t know how long the dishes have been in the sink-- weeks, judging by the state of mold, but he doesn’t stop to judge the pattern of growth. There’s no point. Mattress, stained with coffee and piss in the corner, dirty blankets piled on top. Hands shaking, he drags the milk crate over and sets a slab of cardboard over it to serve as a makeshift table. From his coat pocket, he pulls out a crumpled brown bag and rips it open. It smells sharp and sweet, like resolution.  
  
Jane Doe, fifty five, found in her home with nothing stolen but her heart, blood tracked all over the carpets, no surviving relatives, had a habit of smoking menthols and a glass of sherry every night. Newspaper man at the corner went home every night and beat his wife with his fists and came to work every morning with her blood on his hands. The waiter at the cafe on the corner liked to feed the cats at night with leftovers and gave them the names of his past lovers; the postman was having an affair with his niece while his wife turned a blind eye, instead drinking herself into a stupor in front of the telly.  
  
Lighter, flame, quick bright and burning, but what is pain anymore but his synapses firing uselessly, pain behavior modification, a sense of restraint but what is restraint when physical and the powder cooked and the slide of metal against his skin filling him up, he can smell jasmine in the air, bells ringing, echoing until they are everything he can hear.

\---

He’s memorized it now, until the words are etched into his mind with fine steel, branded forever, even more permanent than the ink that’s seeped into his skin. They’ve labelled it a suicide, but they’re _wrong_ , she would never do this, someone had done this to her, they’d pushed her off the edge, watched her eyes widen as she fell through space and time until she was gone, beyond reach.  
  
Her case file is but a few sheets, too thin for the enormity of her life, the way she drank her brandy, the dark curls of her hair spread on a white pillow. She hated it when he touched her hair, scratched his back and bit his lip, punished him with an anger that burned hot and quick; the scar on the small of her back, shaped like an X-- her treasure spot, he had said and asked whether it was her father or stepfather who had done it and she said that her mother, it was her mother.  
  
Scotland Yard refuses to see him anymore; the officers are given a picture of him and his name and he’s barred from entering the golden, gilded cage where she’s trapped, surrounded by a labyrinth of puzzles and he sees so much but not _enough_ but it’s too much, without her he can’t make sense of it and--  
  
all he has left is a string of  
  
bells.

\---

“Sherlock,” Mya says and sits down on the bed. They don’t touch. The Holmes are not one for hugs or reassuring pats. “Father thinks that this is all his idea, of course.” He doesn’t bother to respond. Mya continues, regardless. “But we both know that you’re not stupid enough to make a wire transfer from that account unless you were counting on being caught. It’s not-- a bad thing to ask for help, even in that roundabout way.” The space between their shoulders could fill universes.  
  
“We all make mistakes.”  
  
There’s a dull roaring in his ears, edged with the shrill sound of bells ringing. “I’d like to be alone now,” he says. “I’m tired.” She leaves without another word. 

\---

“Watson, a little help.” Sherlock looks up and sees Joan’s unamused face, hands cupping a mug of hot tea. “Please,” he amends. “I just need you to-- ah-- tie a blindfold. I can’t do it with my hands cuffed.”  
  
“My pleasure,” she says pointedly and takes the dark blue cloth, setting her mug aside. “You’re turning into a regular Houdini, now. Lockpicking blindfolded?”  
  
“Our lines of work are not so dissimilar. If you could just-- yes, perfect.” Briefly, he catches a glimpse of her slender hands knotting the cloth before everything is enveloped in darkness. “I-- I haven’t exactly done this in a while, you see,” he finds himself explaining, clearing his throat unnecessarily. “And I-- I wanted to-- well, see if I still--you wouldn’t mind keeping the time, would you, Watson?”  
  
“What was your fastest?” she asks and he can smell the honey and lemon on her breath.  
  
“Twenty one point six eight seconds,” he swallows. “I believe that record was last set on December of last year, on the fourteenth at approximately 9:30 in the evening.”  
  
“Talk about keeping records,” Joan smiles-- he can hear it in her voice, the way it rises a little at the end, warm and soft. “Alright, ready?”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Go!”

**Author's Note:**

> dear episode four (the rat race),
> 
> thanks for punching me in the gut  
> and leaving me aching to write fic about sherlock
> 
> love,  
> me


End file.
